He says it like a challenge, daring me to pull back. But I don’t, can’t, even though our embrace is totally taboo. Instead, I tilt my head up, inviting him, needing him.
He slides his palm flat across my stomach, the skin there hypersensitive, then dips his fingers into the waistband of my skirt and under the band of my panties. There’s nothing slow or shy about it; he knows exactly what he’s doing. His fingers part the lips of my pussy, two of them pressing into the wet heat, his thumb finding my clit like he’s mapped it already.
I gasp, then bite my lip. The only sound in the room is the fire, and the steady, obscene slick of his touch.
He presses his mouth to my ear. “Fuck, sweetheart. You’re soaked.”
I whimper, pushing into his hand. He strokes me with slow, devastating control, circling my clit with his thumb while his fingers work me, never rushing, never letting me forget who’s in charge.
He murmurs, “I love how wet you are. Only the young ones gush like a fucking fountain.”
My whole body is tight, every nerve a live wire. I clutch at his wrist, not to stop him but to ground myself, to keep from flying apart. The pleasure is sharp, exquisite, and terrifying. I want to cry out, but I bite down harder, the inside of my cheek raw.
He pulls me into another kiss, this one deeper, more possessive. His hand never stops moving, and the ache between my thighs builds, relentless.
Then, suddenly, a door slams somewhere outside. Jeannine’s heels clatter against the hardwood, her voice echoing as she yells something about napkins.
Kent’s grip tightens for a split second, and then he releases me, withdrawing his hand and pulling back with surgical precision. He stands, smoothing his shirt, the only evidence of what just happened the wild throb in my core and the trembling in my hands.
He retrieves the phrasebook, dusts it off, and sets it on the table as if nothing happened. I stare into the fire, heat blooming along my cheekbones, lips tingling. I try to steady my breathing, force my body back into stillness.
He glances over, blue eyes unreadable, and says quietly, “You should go help your mom with dinner. Jeannine’s probably freaking out.”
I nod, unable to speak. My knees are weak when I stand, my panties slick, the soft cotton chafing in a way that’s almost unbearable.
Then I slip away, cheeks heated and my entire body on fire. Thanksgiving dinner proceeds as usual, even if there are harsh streaks on Kent’s cheekbones, and despite the fact that I barely say anything. Everything proceeds without a hitch, thank god, and within a few hours, I’m back at my apartment, and lying on my bed, staring at the ceiling. Did that really happen? Did I just kiss my stepfather passionately, with my mom still in the house? Did he finger my pussy and rub my sensitive clit as I panted intohis mouth? It feels like a fever dream, and yet the hot rush of blood through my veins tells me it’s not.
But Kent and I never talked about what happened, not that night, not ever. We go about our lives per usual, pretending that nothing went off the rails. And in some ways, I almost believe it. But at the most unexpected moments, I’ll catch him watching me from across the room, his gaze hungry and fierce. Or I’ll see that same dark flush on his cheekbones, and know that he’s aware of me a mere twenty feet away, although he’s talking with another person.
The memory hangs over everything, a storm cloud that never quite breaks. Even now, months later, it pulses behind my eyes, every time I hear his name, every time I smell whiskey or see the flash of lightning on a windowpane. Sometimes, I lie awake in my narrow bed, wishing he would come in and finish what he started. But that’s wrong right? After all, Kent’s my stepfather, so we’re nothing but two ghosts pacing the same haunted house, forever circling but never touching, except in the dark, except in dreams.
The library disappears.Rain and velvet darkness vanish, and I’m back in my apartment, the click and burn of my mother’s voice still unspooling from my phone. My thighs are slick, heartbeat a hammer. The duvet smells like incense and something embarrassingly sweet, and I press the guidebook to my chest as if it could smother the heat pooling there.
I try to swallow, but my mouth is dry, tongue stuck to my teeth.
Jeannine is still talking. “—he’ll need someone in the house. You won’t have to interact much, but someone needs to be there.”
I force myself to breathe. “I don’t have medical training, Mom. I don’t know how to—” Care for someone I’ve been naughty with. “—how to manage somebody who’s, you know, sick.”
She sighs, exasperated. “He’s not a patient. He just needs someone to keep him from getting lost in his own house, or forgetting to eat. Just keep him company.” Another breath, then, as if sensing the danger in my silence: “I’m not asking you to do anything crazy, Mary Kate.”
Not asking, but demanding, because that’s how my mother operates. I can picture her in the mansion right now, sitting on a love seat in her giant walk-in closet. The house, Kent, even my future—her projects, her burdens.
I uncross my legs, careful not to smear the wetness on my thigh, and set the guidebook upright on the nightstand. The picture of the Colosseum looks like a cartoon version of strength: ancient, battered, but still standing. I wish I felt half as solid.
“Okay, got it. I’ll be there,” I say, before I can walk it back.
“Good,” Jeannine says, clipped and pleased. Then she deploys her real weapon: “Kent pays your tuition, Mary Kate. He’s paid for everything. We owe him.”
There’s a pause so long I can almost hear the echo bouncing around my skull. I stare at the envelope pinned to the cork-board by my desk—Century College, $3,200 DUE, the numbers in screaming red. My scholarships are nil. The thought of dropping out, slinking back home defeated, is more shameful than anything I’ve ever done.
“We owe him,” I echo. It sounds obscene.
Jeannine softens, as if she can sense my guilt. “Besides, Kent likes having you around. You’re his favorite, you know.”
I laugh, and it’s almost a sob. “Sure.”
After a little more scheduling, the call ends. I stare at the phone until it goes black, my reflection hovering in the smudged glass: blonde hair static wild, lips bitten red, eyes wide and confused. I scrub my mouth with the back of my hand, and it comes away damp.
